Then what had I done? I’d fucked up again. My carefully ordered world where I thought I made a difference had come tumbling around me. Could I ever get back to the man I was before I returned from Afghanistan for that last time, or would I get back and find the chip still firmly attached to my shoulder? The chip I’m barely aware of when I’m with her.
Is thirty-six too late to start over? To find my way in a citizen world? Could I marry and start a family?
Fuck. Is that what I really want?
With Cat I’ve had a glimpse of the man I could be were I to stop running from the demons chasing me.
I don’t have an answer for myself by the time she pulls her truck onto the driveway and continues up to the house. I park alongside her.
That truck is a heap of trash, I think to myself. Hate to think of her driving around in it. Before I leave, I’ll check it over, make sure it’s safe at least.
Another excuse to delay the inevitable. Because one way or another, leaving is something I’ll have to do, and sooner rather than later.
Noticing Cat hasn’t got out of the truck, I go stand beside her door, my head tilted in question.
“We need food. I was going to head out to the store.”
I pull open her door. “Move over.”
“What?” Uh-uh. There’s that sudden temper.
“I’m coming,” I say calmly. There’s no reason to, but I’m loath to part company with her, or be alone in a house that has nothing to do with me.
“I don’t mind that,” she says, her eyes flashing. “But it’s my truck, I’ll drive.”
Normally I’d have no problem with that either, but I noticed the blue smoke coming from the rear and want a chance to assess how it runs. “Humour me, okay?”
She rolls her eyes but moves over.
I start the engine up, noticing it’s firing unevenly. Shifting into first with an audible crunch, I pull out onto the road. “How long since you had this thing serviced?”
A sideways glance shows her looking down and fidgeting with her hands. “It’s been a while,” she admits at last. “It was my dad’s. I flew down, so I just took over using it. Mom couldn’t drive much by that time.”
“You have your own car?”
“Had. Back in the city. But I sold it.”
Her mom’s medical costs were high, we’ve already talked about that. I guess she’s avoiding the issue as she couldn’t afford repairs. “I’ll go over it when we get back, see what needs doing.” Probably an oil change for a start, and a good look at the gearbox.
We’d had sun while riding the bike. Fortuitously, we’re now in a cage as the sky clouds over and a light drizzle mists the windshield. The wipers, unsurprisingly squeak and seem hesitant. Another thing on my list.
Cat sighs when I swear under my breath. “Look, I know it’s a heap of shit, but I don’t drive far.”
Heap of fucking shit is right. I wonder if she’d accept a replacement from me, but why should she? We’re little more than strangers who pass in the night. Soon I’ll be leaving and that’s the last she’ll hear of me.
But as we drive up to the store she points out, I notice a tattoo parlour across the way. For the first time, I consider getting my Satan’s Devils’ backpatch tattoo blacked out. Once they declare me out bad, retaining it would be a death sentence.
That I even consider it astounds me. The idea of removing the sign of my allegiance to the Satan’s Devils MC isn’t welcome. But soon, unless I make contact or go back, it might be my only option.
It’s my fault.
I ran. I left them. I should have taken my punishment and stayed.
17
Cat…
I’ve had boyfriends before, I’m no innocent virgin. I even lived with a junior doctor for a few months before we both decided it didn’t work. So it’s not the first time I’ve been grocery shopping with someone, but this is a new experience for sure. The only times my boyfriend had come to the store, he’d moaned all the way around.
Shopping with Jeremiah is different. He’s patient, more so than I expect, as I pick my way through the items that are discounted due to their short use by date. I ignore him adding packs of cookies into the cart, already aware he’s got a sweet tooth, but when we get to the meat counter and he picks up a pack of two prime steaks, I slap his hand lightly.
“I can’t afford those.”
“I can.” He grins. “I’ll pay. How about I grill these later? Save you from cooking tonight.”
I already know he cooks a mean steak, he’d found some that first day, ones I’d bought cheap and had in the bottom of the freezer.
The problem is, it all seems so normal, and it would be so easy to say yes. But I’ve no idea why he’s staying with me.
I’ve no real objections, he saved my life after all and he’s been good company. At night I still have nightmares, and when I wake, am comforted to know there’s someone else in the house. On a couple of occasions I’ve woken to find him lying next to me. I pretend to be sleeping, not wanting to chase him away.
I can’t discount all the repairs that he’s doing either. I haven’t failed to notice he cleared out the cellar so I wouldn’t need to go down there. Even the thought of it sends shivers through me.
I was lonely before he arrived.
But do I want a houseguest for a period of undetermined time? That’s what I can’t get my head around.
He’s a handsome man, way out of my league. It’s not that I don’t think I can scrub up well or hold my own with other women of my age, but there’s just something about him. Just the way he moves is sexy and as for handling that bike? Hot as hell. The problem is he’s fit and muscular, a man who grabs life with both hands and I’m just me. I know the kind of men I attract, and it’s not someone with a bad boy image like him. Too much for me to handle? Well, yeah. Not that I’m likely to get a chance.
He takes over pushing the cart while I mechanically go through the things I need to get. Milk, bread, orange juice, salad and fruit while at the same time musing he’s never shown the slightest bit of interest in me. Oh, we’ve talked. I’ve told him how I came to be back in Kentucky, but he’s shared little of himself, other than he was in the Navy, but nothing about what he’s done since. He could be a criminal for all I know, but I don’t get that vibe.
There’s been no tender touches, oh, you can’t count that one where he’s just accidently brushed my arm to pick up some beer—a touch that made my skin tingle, but had no effect on him at all.
He holds a bottle of wine, and I nod, though really it’s a luxury I can’t afford.
No, he’s made no move on me at all, except for the early days when he carried me around because I was so weak. If I think hard, I can remember the feeling of his arms around me. I’d like to feel them again.
He’s seen me naked.
He’s shown no wish to repeat the experience.
So what does he want from me?
It’s past time I asked. Suddenly I stop. “Why are you here, Jeremiah? How long are you staying?” Even his name seems wrong. He’s not a Jerry, and Jeremiah doesn’t roll off the tongue. Who is he?